


love will fuck us apart

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, eliot has some anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Nine times Eliot couldn't properly tell Quentin he loved him, and one time it didn't really matter.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	love will fuck us apart

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for me because 5x03 fucked me up Real bad, but who knows, hopefully y'all will enjoy it too. There's probably a few bits that aren't canon-compliant so please forgive me lol. TW for a few gay slurs. Hope you enjoy! (title from AJJ, btw)

i.

Quentin’s drunk and Eliot’s somewhere in that haze between tipsy and fucked up and he’s been watching Quentin talk about this piece of Fillory lore that’s, like, totally ignored by the continuity of the books, and what the fuck is  _ up _ with that--and they’re still so fucking young and Quentin still looks so happy about magic, about everything, and Eliot can’t tear his eyes away from him, from that light, that  _ love _ .

Quentin pauses for air, and Eliot licks his lips, mouths the words, thinks this time,  _ this time _ , he’ll be able to say them. It’s just three words. Just three words. That’s so much easier than ‘every single thing I see I want to share with you and I want to watch you talk about nerd shit forever and every time you get close enough that I can smell you it’s ten times better than coke’.

Just three words.  _ Come on, faggot, can’t you fucking speak? _

Three words.

“Want another drink?” Eliot blurts, and Quentin blinks in surprise, shrugs, smiles, so then Eliot has to get up and make more drinks, heart racing, digging his nails into his palms.  _ That’s right, coward, run.  _

ii.

Alice is dead and Quentin is too depressed to get out of bed or talk or eat but Eliot tries anyway. Brings him food every day, sits at the foot of his bed, reads, waits. Makes sure Quentin knows he’s not alone, because he can’t be alone, not after that. 

Eliot hasn’t said a word for days of this, just minded his own fucking business, but by the fourth day, he can’t take it anymore.

“Look, I know I’ve never lost anyone like this--” Eliot starts, and he’s shocked by how quickly Quentin rolls over and looks at him.

“It’s not a fucking contest, Eliot,” he says, voice cracking. 

“Okay, sure, I didn’t say it was, I was trying to empathize.”

“You had to kill your boyfriend,” Quentin says, and Eliot blinks, realizing he’d totally fucking forgot about Mike amidst all of the Wild High Fantasy Bullshit of their lives.

He can’t find anything to say to that, just shrugs weakly, palms upturned. “I didn’t love him like you love Alice.”

“Have you ever really loved anyone?” Quentin asks, and it sounds like a genuine question. 

Eliot laughs, can’t help himself. Almost answers the question. It’s just one word this time, just one 3-letter-word. _Coward_. “Nah.” 

“That’s kind of sad,” Quentin says, softly, and of course he’d think that, the man enraptured with everything he sees.

Well, everything but Eliot. “Yeah. I guess so.”

iii.

Alice isn’t dead and Fillory doesn’t want Eliot and Antarctica is fucking cold and miserable and so is Quentin.

They’re both a little drunk and dead quiet and they keep glancing at each other and looking away again. The world could end in short order. It all goes blank.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” Eliot says, the words kind of falling out without him thinking about it.

“What,” Quentin says, spits, maybe, he’s so fucking  _ hurt _ these days.

“Dunno. Letting the Great Blank Spot just kind of...happen,” Eliot says. He shrugs. “Would it be the end of the world to write our own futures?”

“I mean, it might literally be the end of the world, so.” Quentin downs the rest of his drink, shudders slightly. 

“Oh, get over yourself,” Eliot says, and it’s meant to be light but it doesn’t come out light, it comes out pitch-black and angry, like things do with Margo sometimes, and he tries to stop there, but maybe he’s his father’s son after all. “The only thing keeping me alive just fucking spat me out, and what’s your problem? That you brought your dead girlfriend back to life against her will? Christ.”

“Fuck you, Eliot,” Quentin says, hugging himself.

“Fuck  _ you _ . I’m sorry your only possible source of pussy wants to eviscerate you, but you could at least  _ try _ to--”

“To what. To pretend it’s all gonna be okay? It’s not gonna fucking be okay, Eliot,  _ nothing  _ is  _ ever  _ okay. Sorry Fillory didn’t want a shitty alcoholic High King.”

Eliot’s heart goes cold with rage, and both their glasses shatter. Quentin hisses a  _ fuck _ as he starts magicking glass out of his hand. “It could be okay,” Eliot says, softly, trying to calm down, because things get bad when he gets too angry and if he hurts Quentin, really hurts Quentin, like that poor fucking stray dog, or that other poor fucking stray dog, he can’t live with himself. 

_ You think you’re special cuz you’re a fucking queer? You think you can escape  _ this _? You’re just like me. _

“You went to Fillory to die, don’t pretend to be an optimist.” 

“I went to Fillory for you,” Eliot says, softly, looking away. “I could’ve died on Earth just fine.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. “Well...why would you do that...for me.”

“Because I…”  _ love you _ “hate being alone, and Margo was gonna go to Fillory no matter the fuck what.”

“Okay,” Quentin says. “So it was for yourself. Or Margo.”

“I guess,” Eliot sighs, shrugging, rubbing his face. “Sorry about the glass.”

“It’s fine.”

iv.

Eliot’s been sober for two years. That’s the longest he’s ever been sober since he started drinking at fourteen. He’s sober because Quentin confuses the hell out of him and he wants to keep up with it, wants to keep up with every kiss, every time Quentin looks into his eyes and smiles, every time their bodies brush, every time Quentin gets so frustrated and angry with the mosaic that he can’t do anything except fuck Eliot. 

It’s all a lot and Eliot wants to experience,  _ fully  _ experience, every second of it. For the first time in his life he actually wants to be a part of something.

And then Quentin tells Eliot, eyes full of light, that he proposed to Arielle and she said yes, and Eliot fakes a smile despite the shock, the pit of dread and nausea gaping in his stomach, says  _ that’s amazing, Q,  _ and doesn’t touch him, because he thought he had the rules down and now Quentin’s changing the game.

So Eliot’s not sober anymore. Really, really not sober. Because fuck him, he made the mistake of thinking this meant anything to Quentin. He forgot about Alice, or something, or maybe he forgot that he’s fucking  _ nothing _ and that his feelings don’t matter, never mattered. Forgot Quentin doesn’t see him as a person, just a fucking dog. Or he’s being unfair and Quentin can love more than one person, loves everyone who crosses his path. Or he’s just really fucking drunk. 

_ You’re worthless, that’s why, fucking dirt--good for a bathroom blowjob, not enough for anything else. _

He’s sitting crosslegged on the mosaic, running his fingers over the tiles, staring up at the trees, squeezing his eyes shut periodically against the dizzying rush of shitty Fillorian grain alcohol through his bloodstream, and he  _ hates  _ himself for the first time in a long time. 

There’s Quentin’s hand on his back, suddenly, gentle and strong, and Eliot flinches away. Doesn’t want to be touched anymore, doesn’t want to get lulled into a sense of security again, doesn’t want to get angry. Can’t let the mask break now.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, and his eyebrows are knit together like he’s sad or scared or just. Worried. He’s worried about Eliot. The knife twists. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fucking  _ great _ , Quentin,” Eliot says, adding a bitter laugh, and Quentin’s face squinches in concern.

“Two years, El,” he breathes, looking heartbroken.

“Really? You’re gonna come after me for--”

“I’m not coming after you, I’m fucking  _ worried _ , Eliot, Jesus, you--you were doing so well,” Quentin says. “Is this...is this about--”

“Is this about you getting married to a woman even though you’ve been fucking me for years?” Eliot asks, tone mock-light.

“Okay, that’s--you said you were fine with me and Arielle. You  _ encouraged _ me,” Quentin says.

“Yeah, because I know I’m never enough for you, I just  _ hoped _ that this time--” Eliot cuts himself off, shakes his head, throws his hands up.

Quentin puts his hand back on Eliot’s shoulder. Speaks softly, like Eliot’s a wounded animal. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober, okay?”

Eliot shakes him off, again. “I’m not gonna be sober again for a while. Thanks.”

“Hey. Don’t talk like that. You’re strong,” Quentin says, smiling reassuringly at him.

“I don’t  _ want _ to be sober again.”

“El…” Quentin says, sighing, biting his bottom lip. “It’s okay. I’m not choosing her over you. You know that, right?”

“Prove it,” Eliot says, flatly, and Quentin smiles, sadly, maybe, and kisses Eliot, hand wrapped around his neck. 

“I love you. Nothing’s gonna change that,” Quentin says, softly, forehead rested against Eliot’s, and Eliot’s so fucked up and hurt that all he can do is shove away, stand up, walk into the woods, far enough that Quentin can’t see as he falls to his knees and pukes his guts out like an amateur, sobs like a fucking toddler.

v.

Arielle’s been dead for long enough that it’s just a dull ache. Eliot misses her, grew to really love her, but can’t help feeling a sickening rush of pleasure at the fact that he’s now the only one Quentin has left to hold him. They settled into a new routine pretty quickly. Quentin grieves, Eliot takes care of Teddy, keeps working on the mosaic, keeps things in order. He’s a housewife, but he’s okay with it. 

Of course, he’s terrified of his role as odd gay uncle expanding into fatherhood territory, but that’s a panic attack he can swallow and save for later.  _ What are you gonna do when you get angry at the kid, Eli, huh? Think it’s gonna go any better for you? Think  _ you’re  _ a master of self-restraint? _

Everything’s starting to even out, Quentin spending more time out of bed, with Teddy, with Eliot, working on the mosaic. One day he curls an arm around Eliot’s waist and kisses his neck and smiles up at him, and Eliot melts, just like he does every time, except this time, Quentin’s all his. 

It’s a calm few years. Quiet. Quentin talks a lot less than he used to, and Eliot’s not as compelled to fill the silence as he thought he’d be. Teddy gets bored with it, asks questions about the mosaic, about their lives, and Quentin and Eliot agree to start telling him about Earth. 

It’s kind of fun to remember their lives before. Filter out all the bad shit, all the darkness and trauma, and just tell him about the wonder. One night, Eliot and Quentin are laying on their backs on the mosaic, and Quentin says he thinks Earth’s gonna become for Teddy what Fillory was for him, and Eliot says ‘god, I hope not’ before he can stop himself. Quentin goes quiet, rolls away from Eliot, and Eliot curses himself for saying stupid things all the goddamn time. Tries to fix it. 

“You’re my Fillory,” is all he can come up with, and Quentin turns back to look at him.

“So I’m what you dreamed of your whole life, only to find out that it’s just as shitty as everything else?” Quentin asks, flatly.

Eliot sighs. “Yeah, Q, clearly that’s what I meant.”

“Well…” Quentin says, sighs. “That’s kind of how it feels. Like you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored.” Eliot turns on his side to face Quentin, the two of them staring at each other in the moonlight. “I could never be bored, okay?” Eliot feels sick whenever they have emotional conversations, and this isn’t too emotional, but he’s starting to get nauseous anyway, bile pushing up from his stomach.

“I just don’t want you to leave,” Quentin’s saying, and the rest of it is probably sweet and heartfelt but Eliot’s blood is pumping in his ears, he’s trying to not throw up, but he’s getting  _ really _ violently sick. 

“I’m not gonna leave, Q,” he manages to force out before he turns and vomits into the dirt, barely missing the mosaic.

“Jesus, El,” Quentin says, putting a hand on Eliot’s back as he struggles for breath, more stomach acid forcing its way out. 

Eliot breathlessly waves him away, wipes his mouth, rolls back over to face him. “I’m okay.”

“You haven’t been drinking, right?” Quentin asks, and a little pang of hurt flashes through Eliot at the question. 

“No,” Eliot says. “I’m fine.” 

Quentin presses a hand to Eliot’s forehead, like he does with Teddy whenever he complains about anything. “You have a fever.”

“I’m okay,” Eliot says, more insistently. “Really.”

“You should sleep,” Quentin says, face furrowed with concern. 

“Okay,” Eliot says, smiling at him weakly, the nausea still writhing in his stomach, despite the fact that there’s nothing left in there. He lies back down, closes his eyes, pretends to sleep until he hears Quentin go back in the house, and then he sits up, tries desperately to remember the one class he took in medical magic. He was on insane quantities of Adderall for that class, but he at least remembers the basic diagnostics.

His casting is rough, and he always forgets to account for both of Fillory’s moons in his Circumstances, but after a few tries, he feels it working, some magic pulse working its way through his body. Tickling a little. After the full scan, he feels the magic energy prickling at a mass under the right side of his ribs. He pokes it and recoils in pain. 

Doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out the problem. He starts laughing, a little hysterically, and claps his hands over his mouth to smother the sound before he wakes either Quentin or Teddy. He really should’ve thought of this before. He’s been so fucking tired. Barely eating. Thought he was just getting old, or something, but no, his liver’s finally betraying him, after all these years of abuse and neglect.

“Et tu, Brute?” he mutters, poking at the spot again and giggling at the pain.  _ How the fuck else did you think you’d get done in, son _ . 

He kind of can’t stop laughing, has to keep his hands over his mouth, because of course. Of course this is his life. 

_ Okay, kid, welcome to the world--you’re gay and everyone hates you, most of all yourself, except it’s okay, because magic is real! Except it’s not okay, because you still hate yourself and you’ve been poisoning yourself accidentally-on-purpose since you were a kid, and the man you’re hopelessly in love with doesn’t want you. Sike! He does want you and everything’s kind of lowkey perfect except now you’re dying! _

And magic doesn’t cure cancer. Nothing cures cancer. Eliot remembers  _ that _ loud and clear, from a lifetime ago, Quentin’s desperation and Eliot’s desire to help.  _ You  _ killed  _ Cancer Puppy! _

But this is Fillory, there has to be something, right? Something he’s forgetting. This can’t be it. The mosaic is their quest, he can’t die for no reason, that’s so narratively unsatisfying. He can’t leave Quentin and Teddy. Not yet. 

It takes him a few hours of just staring into nothing to remember Chatwins’ Torrent. Penny’s hands. Eliot doesn’t know exactly where it is, but he knows he has to find it. Casts a well-practiced spell to silence his movements (so useful when Teddy was a baby and they all just wanted some goddamn sleep), throws food and water in a bag, and gold, because he’s not going to make Penny’s mistake, and sets out. If he’s lucky he’ll be home in a day or two. No one will have to worry for long.

*

Eliot’s been walking for a day, just about, very slowly. He asks for directions when he passes people, hoping someone will know, except he forgets that the Chatwins don’t exist yet, so calling it Chatwins’ Torrent is getting him precisely fucking nowhere. Walking’s getting harder. He can’t eat without vomiting it all back up And More. He’s so fucking tired. This was such a stupid mistake, and he’s going to die alone in the middle of nowhere.

Except, not alone, because no one loves more fiercely than Quentin Coldwater, and just as Eliot’s about to call it a life and give up, Quentin’s pulling him back to his feet.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Eliot?” he says, eyes searching Eliot’s face, and Eliot smiles weakly down at him, traces Quentin’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

“I’m a little bit dying,” Eliot says, and Quentin looks sick. His eyes dart away. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Chatwins’ Torrent is, would you?”

“I would, actually,” Quentin says, softly. “Were you gonna tell me, El? Or were you gonna just die out here alone?”

“Uh...well, the plan was to not die at all,” Eliot says, trying to smile again. “Is Teddy gonna be okay alone?”

“I guess he has to be,” Quentin says, and he’s moved onto genuine anger. “Let’s get you fixed, asshole.”

“You’re not even gonna ask what’s killing me?” Eliot asks as Quentin grabs his wrist and pulls him entirely the opposite direction he was headed.

“I have a pretty good guess,” Quentin says. 

“Why do you know where--”

“I don’t owe you an answer for anything right now,” Quentin snaps, cutting Eliot off, and Eliot goes quiet and nods. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

It’s a hard trip. Quentin can barely look at Eliot, and Eliot doesn’t really want him to anyway. Eliot hates being weak, being laid so fucking bare. It’s not like he wasn’t a wreck when they first met, but he was an  _ exquisite _ wreck, not an incredibly human mess. But that’s what love is, dealing with incredibly human messes, and Quentin winds a hand through Eliot’s hair and strokes his back when he vomits, lets Eliot lean his whole bodyweight on him, talks the whole way so Eliot has something to hang onto.

They finally get to the river and Quentin helps Eliot down the bank, helps him submerge himself, holds him under. When Eliot comes up for air, sputtering, Quentin looks at him expectantly. Nothing feels different. Eliot’s old live-in frenemy still feels massive and sore under his ribs. He still feels totally weak and useless and sick. He doesn’t want to lie, so he just gives Quentin a little sad headshake.

Quentin nods, slowly, and sits down in the river, leaning his head into his hands and starting to cry hard, body shaking, and Eliot would give anything in the world to not be in this moment. He wraps a wet arm around Quentin’s shoulders, holds him, whispers  _ it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay _ even though it’s really not. Human messes, the both of them.

They sit there, and maybe Eliot starts crying too, it’s hard to tell since he’s already wet, and then, miraculously, as it does, magic does its job. Eliot feels it, a cold sensation in his abdomen, something working its way in and around his organs. 

“Quentin,” he says, breathlessly, laughing, and Quentin looks at him, eyes rimmed red from sobbing, and smiles.

“It’s working?” he asks, and Eliot nods.

“Yeah. I think--yeah,” Eliot says, and Quentin’s crying again, and he kisses Eliot so hard Eliot falls back into the water.

“I love you so much, El,” Quentin says, breathlessly, pulling Eliot back up. “Fuck.  _ Fuck _ .”

“Fuck indeed,” Eliot says, smiling, pulling Quentin to his chest.

vi.

The world is a beautiful place and Eliot is loved and isn’t that all that really matters? Most of the time Quentin is there with him, and he still has such a beautiful smile, such beautiful eyes, and he talks to Eliot about the past, pokes him to remember. He never thinks Eliot might be happier with things the way they are. Not remembering where he came from. But he plays along. Pretends to remember things, because he doesn’t ever want to hurt Quentin.

The other old man who talks to Eliot, the one that’s there when Quentin’s gone, he’s kind too. Sad. Sadder than Quentin. Eliot’s always searching for his name, but it’s never there. But he never gets mad that Eliot doesn’t know it, just tells him that’s okay.  _ It’s okay, El. Don’t worry about it. _

They still work on the mosaic. Eliot doesn’t remember why. Doesn’t remember how long they’ve been working on it. Doesn’t remember a life before this one. But this is still a familiar routine. Moving tiles, drawing patterns, repeating over and over again. Quentin tells him they can slow down, it’s okay, but Eliot doesn’t really want to slow down. It’s a rhythm. It’s a purpose. It’s something to do aside from just sitting there and forgetting everything.

Sometimes, Quentin looks so old that it makes Eliot laugh in disbelief. He doesn’t know how long he’s known Quentin, but it’s been a long time, and when he sees Quentin’s eyes, he can still see a young, beautiful man.

Things are getting harder, though. Putting words to things, telling what’s real or not--not that it really matters. It’s all peaceful. It all feels like magic. He’s lived a perfect life, near as he can tell.

One day, the old man that’s not Quentin is there, helping him pick up a tile, and their hands brush. The man takes Eliot’s hand and squeezes it, smiling at him, and Eliot smiles back, pulls his hand away.

“Sorry,” Eliot says, and the man’s eyebrows do a little thing.  _ For what? _ Eliot can tell. “I just--my husband. I shouldn’t be...holding hands with strange men.”

“Eliot,” the man says, biting his lip, face going through a truly confusing run of expressions. He sighs. “No, that’s...you’re right. Loyalty’s good.”

“You’re very sweet,” Eliot says. “I just love him.”

“Yeah,” the man says, and his eyes well with tears. “He loves you too. Believe me.”

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Eliot says, reaching out, and the man shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t. It’s alright.” The man smiles at him, tears silently running down his face, and he gets up and leaves Eliot sitting there, a little confused, but the reason why quickly escapes him.

He keeps going with the mosaic. Time passes strangely these days. He’ll think it’s the dead of night with the sun still shining, so he looks up a lot to check. The sun’s setting as a young Quentin, the Quentin Eliot remembers kissing him on this spot a lifetime ago, comes to kneel next to Eliot, puts a hand on his cheek, and Eliot knows this can’t be real, even with all the magic in the world, but leans into his touch anyway.

“Hey, El,” he says, and Eliot smiles. 

“Hey, Q,” he says. “I think I figured it out.”

“What?” Quentin asks.

“The beauty of all life. I think I understand.”

“Yeah?” Quentin asks.

“Yeah,” Eliot says.

“Then I think it’s probably time we moved on,” Quentin says, putting his head on Eliot’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” Eliot asks, and Quentin smiles, a little sadly.

“Yeah.”

vii. 

Eliot did the right thing. He did the right thing, right? For both of them. He’s saving them a lot of pain, a lot of anger, a lot of drunk exhausted post-fight burnt out nights. They could never,  _ never  _ work in the real world, just that perfect fucking vacuum. Quentin has too much love in him for it to all be wasted on Eliot. He’d find someone else, and Eliot would be left heartbroken in the dust again.

Except they’re just sitting there in silence, Quentin’s heart visibly shattered on the ground and Eliot struggling for some way to lighten the mood even a little. He can’t find anything, and Quentin looks dangerously close to speaking again, his mouth moving, struggling for words.

“I…” he starts, and Eliot has to say something to cut him off before he can say he doesn’t understand, or mention any of the many things he did for Eliot over those decades.

“You don’t want to be with me, Q,” Eliot says. “I’m not a good person. If you don’t have any other options, sure, but--” He shakes his head, sighs heavily.

“You killed that kid by accident, El, and getting fucked up a lot doesn’t make you  _ bad _ ,” Quentin says, so earnest, so sure.

“I think there’s still a lot I never told you about,” Eliot says. 

“What is this,” Quentin says, and his eyes are so tired, so sad. “Is this you throwing rocks at me so I’ll leave you alone? You don’t have to do that. You don’t get to tell me I don’t want something I know I want. You can’t talk me out of wanting you. Just say that  _ you  _ don’t want me, and I’ll fuck off, but don’t--don’t manipulate me, c’mon.”

Eliot looks away, swallows hard. Wants nothing more in the world than to live his life with Quentin for the second time, but wants to spare Quentin that life. “I don’t want you,” Eliot says, quietly, so quietly, choking up and trying to swallow his tears down.

“I don’t believe you,” Quentin says, just as softly, eyes welling up. 

“Did I ever once tell you I loved you, Q? That whole time we were together, did I ever--?” Eliot asks, and he’s crying now, hands clenched into fists by his side, hating himself more than ever before, and that’s a high fucking bar.

Quentin’s crying quietly, fist over his mouth. “I  _ know  _ you did--do, El, I know--I know--you just  _ said _ you do--”

“You don’t know me,” Eliot says, shaking his head. 

“Fuck you,” Quentin says, dropping his head between his legs, hands clenching his hair. “Fuck you, Eliot. You’re so fucking selfish.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, nodding, staring up at the ceiling, maybe praying that the god he doesn’t believe in will strike him down with His mighty jackhammer. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Because you deserve better, Quentin,” Eliot says, trying to meet Quentin’s eyes. “Really. You do. So-- _ so _ much better. Someone whose glorious, decadent fucking corpse you won’t have to find. Someone who can--someone who can tell you she loves you. Someone like Arielle. Not like me.”

“I don’t want someone better,” Quentin says, swallowing, raising his chin defiantly and looking Eliot dead in the eye. “I want you.”

“It’ll pass,” Eliot says, putting his hand on Quentin’s cheek. “I promise.”

Quentin melts into Eliot’s touch, puts his hand over Eliot’s. “Fine.” He pulls Eliot’s hand away and stands up, sniffing hard and wiping tears out from under his eyes. His tone’s shockingly unaffected, feelings firmly suppressed. So he learned  _ something _ from all those years with Eliot. “See you.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, watching him walk away, pulse of  _ fuck fuck fuck fuck _ beating in his head and giving him a fucking migraine. That night he drinks his brain into a fucking tar pit, a void so dark and impenetrable nothing can get through. No memories, no thoughts, no Quentin. 

_ Fuck _ .

viii. 

Eliot thinks--well, that’s a lie, he’s not thinking, there’s nothing in his head other than a steady run of  _ how do I not lose Q _ . And yeah, it is selfish, except it’s not, because Margo’s with him, and probably the others are too. Not that that matters. Eliot would do anything to stop Quentin from doing this even if he was the only one that cared. 

And  _ fuck _ , he cares. He’s lost Fillory again, the thing that kept him going this far, and he can’t lose Quentin too--not anymore than he’s already lost him. He’s drinking again, got so bitter about Margo that he couldn’t swallow his feelings without a chaser, so there’s no chance of some brilliant plan just materializing out of nowhere, not that that was really a chance regardless. 

There’s no brilliant plan, but there  _ is _ a god-killing bullet, and there’s no way this thing is more powerful than a god. And besides, what’s more romantic than slaying a monster to save the man you love from essentially a very long terrifying jail sentence? 

And yes, Quentin is  _ very _ mad at him for it, and Eliot understands why. He took Quentin’s agency away, again, made an important decision for him, again, except this is Eliot’s fault to begin with. If he’d said yes, if he’d said he wanted to be with Quentin, Quentin wouldn’t do this. Or maybe that’s massively self-centered, but Eliot’s massively self-centered, so.

It doesn’t matter if Quentin’s angry at him, it just matters that he’s alive and safe and not at the whim of this fucking monster. That’s all that matters. That’s all.

ix.

There is an indescribably long amount of time for Eliot to reflect on his mistakes. All of them. And there’s been a lot. The high school teacher he fell in love with and the subsequent affair that Eliot convinced himself was very Nabokov-but-gay, the family friend he blew in the bathroom during the Super Bowl, the stupid  _ stupid _ things he’s said while fucked up, the people he’s hurt. 

His entire life is a blur of shame, but none of it burns bright like rejecting Quentin. The rest of the pain he can start to let go of, forgive himself for. He had a rough go of it, and it’s no excuse, but he can at least stop hating himself for the things that weren’t his fault. He can’t stop hating himself for Quentin. He’ll never stop hating himself for Quentin, and for being stupid enough to let this  _ thing _ take his body.

He knows Quentin’s gonna be ungodly pissed at him when he inevitably saves him, so Eliot practices. Brings up the memory of Quentin from right after Eliot shot the monster, a restless, frustrated, angry Quentin, and plays out the argument with him. 

“Q, I’m so sorry--” Eliot starts, and Quentin  _ never _ lets him finish when he’s pissed off.

“Yeah, Eliot, I’m sure you are,” he says, spits, shaking his head and looking down. 

“I fucked up,” Eliot says, hands pressed together. “I know. But I did it for you. Because--”

“Because you can be the most  _ selfish _ piece of shit?” Quentin asks, and Eliot can’t help but laugh at the blow.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, because I couldn’t bear the thought of living in a world without you.”

“Then why did you say no, Eliot.”

“I’m a fucking coward,” Eliot says, shrugging. “I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you, and it scares the shit out of me, and it scared me that I could feel that much and that you could crush me if you wanted to.”

“Why do you think I would do that?” Quentin asks, earnestly.

“I don’t think you’d do it on purpose,” Eliot says. “I think you have a lot of love and it’s unfair to ask you to only love me.”

“What if I wanted to only love you?” Quentin mutters, staring at the ground between them and shrugging.

“Look, my stupid doubts don’t matter anymore,” Eliot says. “I want to be with you. If you’ll have me. I love you.”

The memory of Quentin meets his eyes. “I’m still mad at you,” he says.

“Yeah. I know. That’s okay,” Eliot says.

“Really mad,” Quentin says, but he’s starting to smile as he leans in to kiss Eliot.

Eliot lets him, then closes his eyes and wishes the memory away, wiping a tear away with his thumb. This’ll probably go okay, then. He’s ready. 

x.

Quentin’s dead and nothing really matters, in the end. There’s no fucking epic love stories. Eliot fucked everything up and now he can’t go back and fix it. He throws away the year of his body detoxing without him as soon as he can, drinks until he can’t remember his own name, but he still remembers Quentin’s eyes, somehow. 

So he wakes up the next morning, suffers through the hangover, and starts digging through his old horomancy notes, scours textbooks, searches for anything that could save Quentin without fucking everything else up, and there’s nothing. Nothing that wouldn’t kill him, nothing that wouldn’t make Quentin’s sacrifice go to waste. 

He gets fucked up again, lies in bed with his eyes squeezed shut, considers digging his Shade out of his body and living without it. He doesn’t want to feel anything anymore. Doesn’t want this aching, gnawing, living fucking self-hatred with him forever. 

He just wants to say goodbye. He just wants to tell Quentin--the real Quentin--that he loves him, because he never managed it before, not in a way that mattered. But it’s too late, everything is  _ fucked _ forever, and all magic does is take. Magic comes from pain, magic breeds more pain, it’s an endless fucking cycle, forever, forever. 

He dreams about Quentin the night he and Alice let go of him, and it’s so real, so lucid. Quentin’s sitting with him on the mosaic, and Eliot’s playing with his hair while he works, and then Quentin turns to him, very serious, and puts a hand on his leg.

“I’m not mad at you,” Quentin says, firmly, and Eliot nods.

“Okay,” he says. “I am, though.”

“Don’t be.” Quentin rests his head on Eliot’s chest, and Eliot wraps his arms around him reflexively. “Don’t torture yourself forever, El. It’s okay. It’s not gonna bring me back.”

“I miss you so much,” Eliot says, and he’s crying without thinking about it. “It fucking _ hurts _ , Q, why did you have to leave,  _ why-- _ ”

“Does it really matter, in the end?” Quentin asks. “It happened. I’m gone.”

“Of course it matters.”

“It doesn’t change anything.” Quentin nuzzles closer to Eliot’s chest. “I miss you too.”

“I love you,” Eliot says into Quentin’s hair. “I love you and I’m so fucking sorry I never told you. I’m so--”

“It’s okay,” Quentin says. “I knew. I always knew.”

“I don’t really wanna exist without you, Q.”

“Yeah, well, you have to,” Quentin says, pulling away and giving him his Very Serious look. “We didn’t go through all that for you to give up, El. People love you. I  _ fucking  _ love you. You end up in the underworld anytime soon, you’re getting your ass kicked.”

“Like you could kick my ass,” Eliot says, giving Quentin a weak smile. “You and what army, Coldwater.”

“Don’t fucking test me, El.”

“Wow, what a man,” Eliot says, and Quentin almost smiles. 

“I love you, but you have to let go, okay?” he says. “You have to keep living.”

“Okay,” Eliot says. “Only because you asked nicely.”

“I’ll see you, El,” Quentin says in a choked whisper, pulling El’s head down to rest against his. “Someday.”

“Someday,” Eliot repeats, holding tightly to Quentin’s wrists. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is appreciated <3


End file.
